


Ghosts of Blue and Gray

by 9_miho



Series: Seven Made One [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Anthropomorphic Personifications, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-25 13:44:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2623916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/9_miho/pseuds/9_miho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“South holds nothing good for wolves,” said the Northlands.</p><p>“Are you going to stop me?” And Ned wondered if he would obey if the Northlands had simply asked it of him.</p><p>The Northlands did not smile. But an upper lip curled, rather like the baring of teeth. “Can I? No – but for the vows you have taken. To wife, to king, to friend, to teacher.” To sister, to the dead, Ned thought, and perhaps the steam smelled coppery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts of Blue and Gray

Ned Stark never sat easy with the Northlands. 

The Northlands looked like a slender, beardless boy, older than Robb. But there were hints, oddities that made Ned hesitate to consider the Northlands a boy. Never mind the Northlands had not aged a single day since the first time Ned could remember being introduced the strange youth who dressed like a ranger of the Night’s Watch but for a fur hood made of a winter fox’s pelt. 

Was the chin not stubborn enough? Was the mouth a little too full? Did the clothes hang oddly at breast or not at all at groin? 

Brandon had never cared. Brandon had treated the Northlands as another brother, hunting and ranging and fighting. It was in Brandon’s company the Northlands would smile the thin, small smile that would be a grin on other faces.

Regardless of whether the Northlands was man or maid, there was austere beauty that even Brandon respected utterly. There was elegance to the lines of the intense, sharp face too evocative of a wolf’s, elegant lines like hewn wood and cleaved ice, clean and strong and never, ever brutish or crude. The hair was not always neat but it was pitch black and thick, practically a pelt. Then there were the intensely gray-blue eyes, the color of a winter sky without a trace of cloud, sometimes grayer, sometimes bluer.

Those eyes currently fixed on Ned Stark as the Northlands soaked in one of the steaming springs beneath Winterfell. The Northlands sat in one of the deepest pools, up the neck in murky, opaque water. This pool was the one favored, because of the darkness to its water, perhaps. 

“So you are leaving.” The Northlands spoke with a voice that could have been male or female, hoarse as if breathing smoke. “I do not recommend it.”

“I’ve been ordered by my king,” replied Ned. He did not mention the letter that whispered of poison and intrigue in a place he thought he would never see again and would happy to leave to distant memory.

“King,” sneered the Northlands. “He didn’t order you. He asked you.” Currently, the Northlands sported recently cut hair, the strands about shoulder length, the ends ragged and crudely cut.

Ned did not frown, did not sigh or beg. He thought of Brandon instead.

“South holds nothing good for wolves,” said the Northlands.

“Are you going to stop me?” And Ned wondered if he would obey if the Northlands had simply asked it of him.

The Northlands did not smile. But an upper lip curled, rather like the baring of teeth. “Can I? No – but for the vows you have taken. To wife, to king, to friend, to teacher.” To sister, to the dead, Ned thought, and perhaps the steam smelled coppery.

The Northlands laughed but the sound held no mirth. “Go on then. I will wait for you.”

Ned stood up and the eyes watched him though their owner made no movement to follow. A mote of bright silver-blue glowed for a moment in those eyes and the expression turned frighteningly cold, still, as responsive and beautiful and terrifying as the statue on a grave.

But the mote faded like a snowflake on a sleeve and the Northlands only leaned back, eyes closing lazily.

Ned left silently, knowing that the Northlands would quietly get out of the spring later, get dressed alone, and disappear like smoke to the winds. He had the feeling that this was not out of modesty or shyness, and the thought pricked him as a pin in a far too tender place.


End file.
